


see me like an arrow, still upon the bow

by notinthisarmy



Category: McElroy Vlogs & Podcasts RPF, Polygon (YouTube) RPF
Genre: Begging, Cunnilingus, D/s, Dirty Talk, F/M, Masturbation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-30 00:04:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11451852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notinthisarmy/pseuds/notinthisarmy
Summary: When he looks back up at her, his hair is in his eyes, and suddenly she can see the anticipation in every line of his body - the tense shoulders, the way he’s squeezing his sides with his elbows, the fact that he keeps biting his lip. It’s written all over him, and Simone thinks this is sweet, and very flattering; and yet in the same instant, it causes something inside of her to bloom, dark and hungry, and ready to knock him down.





	see me like an arrow, still upon the bow

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Hey Rosetta!'s _Harriet_.
> 
> Thanks as always to my gf who hears out every one of my concepts and always improves them.

Simone doesn’t know a whole lot about wine, but she knows what she likes, and how to talk about it in such a way that she makes herself clear. Light tannins, fruit-forward, full-bodied, and a hint of spice on the finish. That’s her ideal red, because in her opinion drinking wine should be a small odyssey of flavour. And red is her preferred type - white is nice for garden parties, if she ever knew anyone who threw those. This is not a garden party. It’s quarter to eleven on a Friday night, and Nick took two trains to get to her apartment from his two-star hotel.

Nick doesn’t drink red wine, so she doesn’t offer him any. He’s standing in her kitchen very conspicuously not touching anything: his thumbs are hooked in the front pockets of his jeans, his elbows are tucked in, and his shoulders are a little hunched. He’s glancing around without moving his head, as if that makes it subtle, taking in the mundanities of her little apartment - the dishes dripping in the drying rack; the mostly-full wine bottle, uncorked on the counter; the keys in the little dish by the door; the small shiny Victoria’s Secret bag, empty except for a spray of pink tissue paper peeking out the top. That’s an old bag, actually - she’s just so shit about leaving things lying around - but she left it on purpose, in the end, just to fuck with him a little. She’s not actually wearing underwear.

“Find the place okay?” she asks, the obligatory welcome phrase. Nick blinks and refocuses on her, his fingers curling and uncurling against the outside of his pockets. She takes a sip of wine and keeps her eyes on him.

“Yeah,” he says. “Google maps.”

Simone arches an eyebrow as if to say _no shit._ He lets out a short, breathy laugh and ducks his head. When he looks back up at her, his hair is in his eyes, and suddenly she can see the anticipation in every line of his body - the tense shoulders, the way he’s squeezing his sides with his elbows, the fact that he keeps biting his lip. It’s written all over him, and Simone thinks this is sweet, and very flattering; and yet in the same instant, it causes something inside of her to bloom, dark and hungry, and ready to knock him down.

“I was just watching _Modern Family_ ,” Simone says, turning and heading back into her living room. There's a blanket tossed across the sofa where she’d been sitting. When she puts her glass of wine down on the coffee table and turns back, Nick is still hovering by the counter, a faint line between his eyebrows.

“Really,” he says, sounding hesitant. “I wouldn’t’ve pegged you as a fan.”

Simone rolls her eyes. “‘Fan’ is too strong a term,” she says. “But it’s fine if it’s not your thing. You won’t be watching it anyway.”

“But you will?” Nick’s smirking, taking a couple steps forward. Now all of a sudden he’s trying to put on a cool front, as if in any universe he could best Simone at _that_. He thinks he knows the answer to his own question.

“Yeah,” says Simone, sinking down into the sofa, on top of the blanket, putting her bare feet up against the edge of the coffee table. She pushes against it until it scrapes a few inches across the floor, widening the valley between table and sofa. Then she puts her feet back down flat, spreads her legs a little, and looks back at Nick.

He’s still making his way over, painfully slow. She can see the gears chugging along in his head as he looks from her face to the laminate floorboards between her feet.

He doesn't give in right away. He’s testing her, she realizes, as he puts a knee up on the cushion between her legs. He starts to lean in, looming over her, cupping her face in one hand, and his eyelids drop as he gets closer. He's staring at her mouth. She lets him think he might even get to kiss it, waits until he’s just a couple inches away before she plants a hand on his chest and shoves, _hard_.

To his credit, he catches himself fairly quickly. He still has a foot braced on the floor, and he doesn't even come close to bumping her wine. But his eyes are wide, and she knows she's woken him up. He remembers last time, now: she sees it play in his head like a movie, the way she'd put all her weight into her hands on his biceps, pressing him into the bed, and ridden his dick till he was practically sobbing.

“Come on, cowboy,” she admonishes him, cocking her head. “Settle down and pass me my wine.”

He blinks a few times, licks his lips. “Yes, ma’am,” he says, too close to making fun. She gives him a quick, hard pinch on the inside of his arm, ignoring his yelped _ow!_

“Simone will do just fine,” she informs him. She holds his gaze for a long moment, before he twists his body to reach her wine glass and hand it over. She takes it, swirls it gently, and opens her legs a little wider.

He sinks to the floor in front of her, puts his hands on the insides of her knees. From this angle, he can see up the oversized T-shirt she's wearing, and the nothing beneath it. His hands squeeze a little, reflexively.

“I’m just gonna finish the episode,” Simone says breezily, reaching over to the remote lying on the sofa next to her. “Go slow, yeah? I want to relax.”

Nick swallows, audible in this moment of utter silence. Then she presses play.

Nick presses a kiss to her inner thigh, halfway up. Then he turns his face towards her core, and the stubble on his cheek rasps and catches a little - it's nice, makes her twitch - and he lets out a stuttering breath that heats the skin beneath.

 _Good boy,_ she thinks but doesn't say aloud. He's not diving right in. That's a rarity in men that you've got to appreciate. His hands are shifting from her knees, fingertips tracing gentle lines down her calves and then up again with the warm flats of his palms this time. It’s hard to know if he can tell, in the shadows of her T-shirt and thighs, that she’d touched herself before he’d arrived - that she'd thought about _this_ , specifically, about how far he'd like her to push him. She feels like she got a pretty good idea of that the last time, and the ease with which she’d cowed his cursory attempts at dominance only makes her want to be bolder.

He kisses her again, the other leg now, open-mouthed and much higher up, so close that she only just catches the sigh building in her throat.

“God,” he whispers, hard to hear over the sound of Claire, onscreen, complaining about the state of the kitchen.  Simone sips at her wine and doesn't acknowledge the slip-up, until he keeps going. “Simone, you smell so -”

“Hush,” she says, and turns up the volume a single click. “Don't you have work to do?”

For a brief moment she feels a flash of regret - she likes compliments, especially compliments like _that_ which she doesn't get to hear often enough - but Nick shudders, full-body, like he's been zapped with something. And it makes him get to the point at last, ducking his head under the hem of her T-shirt and licking a slow, purposeful line up the seam of her cunt, opening her up. Her breath hitches. She’s glad for the noise of the TV, masking it.

He puts a hand on her hip, urging her to shift a little closer to his face. She acquiesces, and then his other hand is under her shirt, holding her open so he can lay the flat of his tongue against her centre - too low to hit her clit, but then he curls his tongue and the soft, yielding pressure becomes firm and focused - now the tip of his tongue is against her entrance, only enough to tease, and only for a moment. Then his tongue is relaxing, and he’s kissing her - all soft lips and slow brushes of tongue.

The thing about _Modern Family_ is she doesn’t really enjoy it that much. She really only pays attention when Gloria’s on the screen, and for some goddamn reason it’s still just the Dunphys in their absurdly expensive kitchen. Instead she looks down at Nick, at his hand absentmindedly stroking her hip through her shirt; the gradual tilt of his head when he changes angles; the shine of his hair in the lamplight, and the auburn streaks that only sometimes show up. He takes good care of his hair. Another rarity in a guy. He presses his tongue to her entrance again, a little harder this time, breaching her just a little, and Simone hopes to god he doesn’t decide to look up just then - though she’s pretty sure he couldn’t, with her shirt in the way. Her head drops back against the cushion, her eyes fluttering shut.

She tunes back into the TV just in time to catch Gloria telling off her geriatric dick of a husband for the thousandth time. “Atta girl,” she mutters, and Nick makes a sound from between her legs - possibly one of frustration, or more likely confusion. “Not you, honey,” she says, and strokes her fingers through his hair. He lets out another sound, closer to a whine this time, but he doesn’t stop. His head moves under her hand, his jaw opening wider so he can lick another stripe up the length of her.

When he reaches her apex he flicks his tongue a couple times, fast, over her clit, and the surprise as much as the spike of pleasure makes her cry out. Her hand clenches in Nick’s hair, and that only spurs him on; he pushes the underside of his tongue against her clit, _hard_ , until she shoves at his head and he reels back, panting. She pauses the TV.

“And here I was thinking you were being so obedient,” Simone sighs. Her heart is beating fast, but her voice comes out cool and only the tiniest bit breathless. “You’re making me interrupt my show.”

Nick’s mouth is open and his lower lip is pulled back from his teeth a little, halfway between a snarl and a grin. His mouth and all around it is gleaming wet; of course it is. “I’m sorry,” he says. He manages to sound _almost_ contrite. She likes the insolence, really; it keeps things interesting. Not that she can let on.

“No, you’re not. You’re just desperate. All you can think about is getting off. Were you embarrassed when you texted me? Did you think about how shameless it was to text a girl to ask if she’s up?”

Nick’s tongue darts out to lick his bottom lip. “Sure,” he says. “But I figured, worth it?”

Simone gives a thoughtful hum. She takes another drink of wine. Nick is staring at her mouth as she does it; she licks a drop off the rim of the glass, just to be showy. “And has it been, so far?”

Nick nods, slowly. “Yes,” he says, and licks the taste of her off his lips. “I mean, my knees are starting to hurt…” He trails off, like he’s not sure he wanted to venture that complaint and isn’t sure where to go with it now it’s out there. He’s looking back down between her legs again, and straining just a little against her hand.

“Are they,” Simone replies, as detached as she can make it. She leans forward just enough to set her glass of wine down on the table. “Do you wanna get up? Sit up on the sofa with me and watch TV?”

She doesn’t have to spell it out. Nick gets the implication. He shakes his head, a little jerkily with her hand still in his hair.

“What do you want, then?”

“I want to eat you out,” he says, glancing up at her with soft eyes. “I wanna taste you, I wanna feel you come against my face, please, let me keep going...”

And Simone had been ready to let him bruise his knees a little, but _that_ was just above and beyond; she hadn’t told him to ask so sweetly, and against her better judgment it has her softening, just a little. She leans over to the other end of the sofa, grabs the throw pillow there, and tosses it into his lap.

“All right,” she says, watching him shuffle around to tuck his under his knees. And she guides his head back to her cunt. He’s back to going easy - gentle licks that spread her wetness and just barely keep up the heat in her gut. She gives a soft sigh to let him know he’s on the right track again, and then, an afterthought, hits play on the remote. The sound of _Modern Family_ filling her apartment again is actually jarring, this time - it’s more of an annoyance than any form of entertainment at this point - but the pretense is important.

This episode sucks. She’s only half-watching, but there’s way too much of the Dunphys, who are so _clearly_ the worst family on this show, and when the end credits come up it’s a genuine relief. Still, she feels good, kind of bone-meltingly good. She doesn’t notice how much she’s sunk down on the sofa until Nick’s face is pressing harder into her, and he’s clumsily trying to scoot back, maintain the pace she set for him.

“No,” she says, and lifts her leg over his shoulder, resting her calf on his back and digging her heel in a little. “That’s good. Like that.”

His hands, resting on the outsides of her thighs like he’s trying to cage himself in, squeeze a little. He presses close again, tentative but eager. The strokes of his tongue are getting broader and firmer, just brushing the base of her clit and drawing the smallest squeak out of her - she bites down on her tongue to quell any other sounds, but Nick _moans_ when he hears it, and his lips and tongue are vibrating against her and it fucking lights her up. She digs into his back harder, pushing her other foot against the floor - it feels like his whole face is pressed against her now, and he’s tilting his head trying to get the next perfect angle, his jaw working frantically. He’s working at her entrance, tentative at first, waiting for her to forbid him; when she doesn’t, he dives into her, starts fucking her in earnest. She rolls her hips up into him, and with a clenched jaw and nails digging into her palms she’s managed not to let out another sound but she knows he can feel the tension in her body. Still, she likes how it feeds his eagerness - likes the way he can’t stop letting out little grunts of effort and the way he’s panting through his nose, refusing to pull away to get a real breath of air.

Eventually she forces him to, more because if he starts hyperventilating while he’s down there it won’t be fun for anyone. And fuck, is he a sight to see. His eyes are half-lidded, hazy, his cheeks are all flushed, his mouth hangs open and the whole lower half of his face is shining. Simone slides her hand out of his hair, and watches him sway with uncertainty - where does she want him? Does he stay still or go back to work? She can see the question in his eyes.

“Aren’t you a wreck,” she murmurs, and she doesn’t have to fake the amusement in her voice. He looks nearly ruined, and she hasn’t even touched him - hasn’t even let him undo his jeans.

His eyebrows tilt upwards, cartoonishly pleading, and then he risks a movement - lays his face against the inside of her thigh, the one that’s raised over his shoulder. She thinks it’s supposed to be cute, make her soften again. She hauls his head up by his hair instead.

“And now you’re getting your mess all over _me_ ,” she scolds him, twisting so his head turns to look at the smear of wetness he’s spread on her skin. “Clean it up, Nick.”

She only makes the gentlest motion with her hand before he’s leaning in the rest of the way, and god, his tongue is already out by the time he gets there. He licks up the wet patch he left, sucking the skin into his mouth and looking up at her as he does it. Her blood pounds at the sight, her hand tightening in his hair, but he doesn’t protest.

When she finally tugs him off, he lets out a hard, ragged breath and tries to dive back in, but she shakes her head. “Take off your clothes,” she says, and relishes the way he scrambles to his feet, nearly slipping on the cushion below his knees. He pulls his shirt off over his head, fumbles with the button on his jeans, kicks them off and only then remembers to peel off his socks. Then the boxers, which join the pile of clothes on her living room floor, and he’s standing in front of her naked and hard and twisting his hands awkwardly at his sides. She lets herself enjoy that, too, for just a moment, before pushing herself to her feet and stretching her arms over her head till her shoulder pops.

“Go to the bedroom,” she says. “I’ll be along in a minute.”

She looks down at her wine, sitting on the coffee table, still more than half full. At least she hadn’t bought the expensive kind - it’s decent, but she won’t cry over wasting a little. She takes one last sip, lets the fruit and the pepper sing on her tongue, and then she sets it down, slips her shirt off, and wanders into the bedroom. Her cunt is swollen and soaked and she can feel the ache in it with every step she takes.

Nick is sitting on the bed, waiting. She doesn’t bother pretending not to stare. He _is_ exactly as cute as he thinks, even with his face all flushed and wet. His hair still looks extremely good, despite how thoroughly she’s messed with it. He’s sitting with his knees pulled up a little, looking all vulnerable, because he knows how to work that angle. And it _is_ an angle. She refuses to let it affect her.

Nick is staring too. “Simone,” he croaks, his eyes raking over her body. He leans forward a little on the bed. It looks involuntary.

“It’s a good start you gave me,” she says, putting one knee up on the bed before pausing. “Lie back.”

He does, his gaze still locked on her as she climbs onto the bed the rest of the way. “Are you gonna sit on my face,” he says, breathless, the words a little jumbled.

She doesn’t answer at first. She does straddle him, watches his eyes go wide, anticipatory, but she’s hovering only halfway up his chest. His chin tips up a little, like he’s offering himself up. “You haven’t figured it out yet,” she says, tilting her head. He blinks a few times. It makes her smile a little, how much he can ham it up when he really wants something. “I like it when I don’t give you what you want. Maybe if you were better at hiding it… but you’re so obvious, Nick. Go on. Ask me for it.”

He must know the futility at this point, but he asks. “Sit on my face,” he begs, looking from her face to her cunt and back again. “Simone? Please?”

“No,” she sighs, and drops her head back as she reaches down and slides a couple fingers over her clit.

“Simone,” he says again, whining now. She doesn’t answer, lets him keep going, stoke that fire inside of her that wants to hear him break down. “Simone, please, I tried so hard, didn’t I make you feel good, can’t I make you feel even better? I can make you scream, come on, I’ll do anything you want, you can ride my face like it belongs to you -”

Simone laughs up at her ceiling and shifts her hand, using the heel of it now as she chases that rising pressure. “It does,” she says, just to goad him on, and he just runs with it. It’s a thing of beauty.

“Yeah, fuck, it’s yours, I’m yours, I wanna make you feel good, let me try -”

“No,” she says again, unnecessarily - he knows she’s not going to give in but it feels good to _say_ it anyway, makes her shiver with satisfaction as he lets out a broken groan.

It’s the sight of him that finally pushes her over the edge. When she looks down for the first time in a little while, he’s dragging tongue and teeth over his lips like he’s just trying to remember how she tastes, like whatever’s left at the back of his mouth isn’t enough, and his eyes are fixed on her hand as it grinds slow circles into her clit. She comes with a thin keening sound, watching the desperation in his face, and she keeps chasing the feeling even after it's peaked, going harder, pushing out shuddering little moans that come from deep in her chest. It’s so _fucking_ good, until it's a little too much; and then she sinks down a little, braces her wet hand on his bare chest, and gasps.

It takes most of her strength not to just completely collapse and possibly crush his lungs. Her legs are shaking as she climbs off of him to sit against the headboard. Nick is turning his body to follow her, but he doesn't touch her - just stares, silent and needy.

“I know,” Simone sighs, stretching out her legs. “You wanna come, right?”

Nick’s gaze turns baleful for just a moment. “ _Please_ ,” he says, and Simone reaches out, brushes his hair off his forehead. She’s nice enough to use her clean hand.

“Sit up,” she says, and he does, letting her push him a little until he's sitting on the edge of the bed, his back to her. Her closet is on the wall across from them, the door made of floor-to-ceiling mirror.

“Simone?” he says, sounding uncertain. She makes a soothing noise, scoots forward to lean her front against his back - and he shivers, maybe because of her breasts against his shoulder blades, or maybe just because he's so keyed up that any touch at all is almost too much.

“Go ahead,” she says, tucking her chin onto his shoulder. His eyes are huge, meeting hers in the mirror until she bites down on the base of his neck. “Not at me. You think you're so cute, Nick, and you're right. Why would you look at me when you're such a fuckin’ pretty picture?”

He looks a little lost. It’s sweet. His hands are on the bedspread at his sides.

“Go on,” she says, “touch yourself. I think you’ve earned it. Look at yourself, hm?”

He lifts one hand, the other grasping the blanket in a fist. He’s moving slowly, like he’s waiting for her to say it’s a joke, but it isn’t. She watches his eyes in the mirror, watches him obediently looking at his own reflection as he wraps a hand around himself and starts to stroke. A noise catches in his throat, and she can feel his shoulders seize up a little.

“I give you some shit for being full of yourself,” Simone says, “but it’s not really fair, is it? Of course you’re obsessed with your own face. I just think you deserve to see it like I do. All red, and wet, and desperate. I mean, I know you can feel it, but now you can see it too, can’t you? How fucking needy you are?”

“Yes,” he says, right on the heels of her question. He’s moving faster, speeding up as she talks, and she’s going to take that as encouragement. He won’t last long like this, but that’s fine. She won’t be any worse off if he comes in a minute flat. His spine is curving, like he’s trying to fold himself around the frantic motions of his hand, but she grips his shoulders and pulls him up straight again.

“Keep looking,” she says. “I want you to remember this next time you’re taking one of your adorable selfies, or next time you catch me looking at you. This is how I like to think of you, Nick, totally shameless.”

“Simone,” he gasps, his eyes wild, his body tense all over. He reaches up suddenly, grasping her hand against his shoulder.

“Go ahead,” she says, and he lets out a sharp, bitten-off cry, arching back instead of forward this time so his head tips back onto her shoulder. His eyes are still open though, and that’s the best part: together they watch him in the mirror, stretched taut, striping his stomach white with come. Simone doesn’t say anything when his eyes slide shut, when he starts to come down and let himself relax. His cock twitches a few more times, and she fights an odd urge to make soothing noises. He’s leaning back into her more heavily by the moment.

She reaches over to her nightstand for the box of Kleenex and does her best to get the mess of his stomach. He makes a little sound as she does, soft and hard to read, but then he grabs another tissue and drags it across his jaw.

“Come on, big guy,” she says, and pulls at his shoulders so he shifts, a little clumsy. Somehow she manoeuvres them both back against the pillows, lying next to each other like a classic post-coital movie couple. She bumps their shoulders, conscious of giving him space to breathe.

Except she needn’t have worried, because he says, “Simone -” and rolls over into her, winding an arm around her middle and pressing his face into her hair.

“Yes, Nick,” she says, and puts a hand on his arm where it’s laying across her middle. She squeezes a little.

He turns his head, enough that he can speak without being muffled. “Kiss me?”

She does, of course, turning over onto her side and tilting his face up with a hand on his cheek; he still tastes and smells of her, and he stretches his neck to get more when she starts to draw back. “Hey, you good?”

“Yeah,” he says, still leaning in. “Of course I’m good. Do I not seem good?”

Simone smiles, her first real one of the night since she opened the door to his sweet, hopeful face. She kisses him again, grazes her tongue across his lips but doesn’t let it get too intense, and doesn’t pull away until he does.

“You’re a good kisser,” Nick says, snuggling into her side again. “It’s a shame you only ever wanna just dominate me into the floorboards.”

“Is it a shame?” Simone asks, mostly sure of the answer but maybe feeling a little less invincible in the aftermath.

Nick gets a leg between hers, and she can feel his stomach against her hip - it’s still a little sticky despite her efforts. “No,” he says, and goes to sleep there, wrapped around her. Simone strokes his arm a little. She wonders if she should have made him get up and brush his teeth.


End file.
